


Of a Nova

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elrond finds the one for him amidst Thranduil’s halls.





	1. Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ravin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravin/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for shadow-ravin’s “Elrond/Lindir being soulmates” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s agreed to stay for precisely one week, absolutely no more, and unfortunately no less. His procession is met by Legolas at the gate, where they exchange polite greetings, and Elrond pretends not to notice how clearly disquieted Legolas is at being made to play this role in his father’s stead. Elrond’s known Thranduil long enough to understand. He expects to be paraded up to the throne like any other guest, but they’ve arrived late, and Legolas informs him, “A great feast has been prepared. I am to escort you to it.”

Elrond dips his head and says, “Thank you.” Most of those that rode with him quietly take the horses away, slipping off to lesser feasts or early beds, while Elrond himself is guided to the main dining chamber. He’s come relatively alone on this trip, having left Erestor to rule and Elladan and Elrohir still out on another of their expeditions. Thranduil wouldn’t wait. Sometimes it’s simply easier to accept his summons than try to diplomatically decline, even when Elrond knows the whole reason for the visit is an excuse for Thranduil to break out more wine.

Sure enough, he can smell the rich Dorwinion brew as soon as Legolas ushers him into the spacious hall. The starlight streams down through high windows, interspersed with hundreds of candles elegantly arranged across the walls. Several tables line the wide space, all full and sporting chattering elves, food and drink already flowing. The head table is raised upon a dais, smaller and occupied only by Thranduil and a few stray nobles picking gingerly at their plates. Thranduil has his mouth to a glass as Elrond approaches him, pausing once to bow. 

Legolas slips into an empty seat at Thranduil’s side, the other left open for Elrond. With a lazy glance in his direction, Thranduil sets the wine down and drawls, “Lord Elrond, how good of you to make it. At this rate, we did not look to see you before dawn.”

“I apologize for the delay,” Elrond answers, because he knows that’s what Thranduil’s looking for. “My party encountered a horde of spiders and were momentarily driven from the path. We handled them well enough, but it did cost us several hours.”

Thranduil dons a disgruntled look and waves a hand, muttering, “Nasty creatures. I am sorry you were accosted in my lands. I will send a guard for you on your next visit.”

Elrond says, “Thank you,” despite hardly needing them. He hadn’t meant to goad Thranduil to it. 

Thranduil doesn’t linger any further on the subject, and instead glances over his shoulder to call, “Galion, fetch a new bottle for our guest, and a servant to see that it is never far from his cup. That new one, I think—at least we can trust he will not sneak it away for himself.”

Elrond knows better than to insist he doesn’t need a personal attendant for his cup. He settles into filling his plate with salad instead, and enjoys the rich meal after such a long journey, while Thranduil’s butler slips out of the hall and Thranduil himself begins a boast of his latest, numerous, and extraordinary achievements.

* * *

They’re well into a conversation on Dwarven trade policies when Elrond feels it. He pauses in his explanation of Imladris’ current treaty with the Blue Mountains, his skin prickling with a sudden burst of warmth he hasn’t felt in years. More than that. It’s been so long that at first, he doesn’t recognize the sensation. Thranduil takes his hesitation for a natural finish and picks up again, proclaiming, “The Woodland Realm has no such need of minerals—my palace is already quite stunning, and there is no material they could provide that would match the beauty of Elven art. You are outdated, Elrond. The Dwarven empires of old are crumbling, and their skill of crafts stagnates with it. They have little to offer.”

Normally, Elrond would thoroughly disagree. Tonight, he glances to his other side, ignoring Thranduil completely. A new servant has appeared, likely the one that Thranduil had Galion collect. This elf sidles in between Elrond and the drunken Silvan noble next to him, leaning slightly over the table to pour a freshly opened bottle of wine directly into Elrond’s glass. The servant is frowning lightly, eyes fixated on the transparent rim, apparently lost in concentration. He’s a young, pretty thing, with pale skin and delicate bones, a worried brow and long, brown hair kept away from his face in two intricate braids tied behind his head. He smells like a bed of flowers with a few shavings of vanilla laced around the edges. His lips are plush, pink, and slightly parted. His ears have such thin, elegant tips to them that Elrond almost can’t help himself from reaching out to stroke them.

He tightens his hands in his lap, both surprised and horrified with his thoughts. The elf finishes his pour and sets the bottle on the table again, then casts a subtle glance at Elrond. When he sees that Elrond’s watching him in return, his eyes widen around the edges, and he hurriedly looks away, bowing his retreat. His cheeks tint in a supple flush, but then he’s past Elrond, likely back several paces to watch and wait on his lord, and Elrond restrains himself from turning to look.

Thranduil clears his throat deliberately, and Elrond forces himself to return his attention to his host. The prickling hasn’t left him. It’s only intensified. It burns along his flesh like a sudden fever, a mild ringing in his head whispering what he already knows. He feels an almost physical pull from the table, like a tether’s attached straight to his heart and is constricting around him, tugging him away. He thinks to tell Thranduil, to excuse his poor behaviour, and, most importantly, to request the name of the lovely young attendant who hovers so tantalizingly on the very edges of his consciousness.

But that would be highly inappropriate. This pull isn’t everything. It isn’t even, as he already learned once in his life, always entirely mutual. And that servant looked so very _young_ , while Elrond himself is old and weary. It can’t be right. Perhaps he misunderstood the direction of that pull. And Thranduil would never let him hear the end of an attraction to a servant. The last thing he needs is another ordeal with Thranduil. So he clears his throat and says, “Please, forgive me. My mind wandered. What were you saying?”

Thranduil looks thoroughly annoyed, but nonetheless dives into a lengthy review of the last set of dwarves he caught hunting in his woods.

* * *

Despite Elrond’s late arrival, the feast stretches long into the night, and when Thranduil finally stands and Elrond thinks himself free, Thranduil merely claps his hands, announcing, “In honour of our esteemed guest, I think it time that we had some entertainment before we retire.” 

The speech is short, but a round of applause follows anyway, as it often does with Thranduil. Elrond only hopes it really is the last thing before they sleep. If the journey hadn’t tired him out, Thranduil would’ve, and the constant buzz that now pulses in the back of his mind doesn’t help matters. Thranduil sinks back into his seat, and a crowd of minstrels slips in through the sides of the hall, making their way to the cleared space just below the head table. Most bear harps of various types, but a few hold flutes. To Elrond’s surprise, the attendant that served him glides in to take one of the smaller harps. It looks strangely _right_ in his slender hands, the golden finish complementing his lavender robes. Elrond finds he can’t look at any of the others. 

He stares fixedly at the one lone player, the only one that doesn’t look to their king before the song begins. Instead, his gaze lifts once directly to Elrond, and they’re locked together for one intense but fleeting moment, and then the servant looks down between his feet. He’s still slightly flushed, though Elrond doesn’t think he’s imbibed, and his fair lips are still lightly lowered at the ends. But he begins the song with the rest of them, with as much skill, as much purpose, as much art. His voice is beautiful.

His voice is the only one Elrond truly hears. It was meant for singing, he can tell, though there’s a shy cadence to the words and a quivering hesitance to the tune. Elrond has a sudden, flickering memory of Maglor, so many centuries before, playing quietly by the fire. He hasn’t been stirred so much by music in a long, long time. 

This servant is no Maglor. He’s no warrior—Elrond can see that even from this distance—but he seems gentle, thoughtful, and he sings with meaning. Elrond can’t lift his fork throughout it—he can’t break the trance. He doesn’t dare take another sip of wine and risk blurring his senses to this. He soaks it in like warm water in a long-awaited bath, pleasant and cleansing, existing only as this audience—

“He plays better than usual tonight,” Thranduil notes at his side. Elrond doesn’t look to see whom Thranduil means. Surely it’s obvious whom he watches. Thranduil elaborates for him, “The one on the end, with the golden harp. I have only just recently allowed him to play for me, and had thought him lacking the bravado of the others, but tonight is an improvement. Perhaps I will allow him to remain in attendance of such affairs after all.”

Because he’s known one who played before the beauty of Yavanna’s trees, Elrond has heard more technically talented musicians. But he isn’t sure he’s heard a song delivered in such a way that touched him so, that he personally enjoyed so thoroughly, and he finds himself insisting firmly, “You should keep him.”

Thranduil makes a noncommittal grunt and returns to his wine. The young elf dares another quick look in Elrond’s direction, only to fall instantly away again. Elrond’s aware he’s staring but can’t bring himself to stop. 

He wonders if the lone minstrel can feel it too.

* * *

When the feast has come to its end, Elrond actually finds himself sorry for it—he would’ve liked the music to go on. But Thranduil dismisses them and graciously escorts Elrond out into the corridor, along the path to where the guest chambers lie, and informs him, “I have had a special gift prepared for you.”

Elrond frowns at this; he brought no gifts in return. Thranduil’s grin is unsettlingly sly. Thranduil continues smoothly, “I noted your interest and arranged it with my staff while you were seemingly enraptured with the final score. I must say, if I had known Imladris was so hard pressed for enthralling music, I would have invited you far sooner.”

As he has no desire to explain his complete captivation, Elrond merely smiles politely. They continue on in silence, Thranduil likely full from the feast and Elrond in a pensive retreat. The glow from the feast subsided when the music ended and the minstrel left, but now, as they approach his quarters, it seems to swell in him again. By the time Thranduil finally stops them before a pair of grand doors, he’s nearly dizzy with it. 

Thranduil tells him, “Sleep well, my friend. You may thank me in the morning.” 

Elrond tiredly bows his head at Thranduil’s dismissal, and they part ways. Two guards remain with him, standing stoically outside his doors. Elrond enters with a feeling of relief, ready to rest his body, even if his mind will keep its questions.

As the doors swing silently closed behind him, he receives at least one answer. The feeling of an external pull intensifies exponentially, his temperature flaring, his vision running white for one disorienting moment. 

Perched delicately on the side of the bed, the young minstrel from earlier winces, ducking his head into his hand, eyes scrunched closed—Elrond can only assume he’s felt the same flare but has less personal control. Then he shivers and tries to straighten, looking down at the floor beneath Elrond’s feet.

He was a lovely sight at the feast, but here, he’s _beautiful_. The only light in the room comes from several candles placed upon the nightstand, casting him in a warm, orange-yellow radiance. His trim, proper robes have been replaced with a thin, silken material that drapes off his bare shoulders and barely covers his knees, the middle held closed with a matching sash. His legs and feet remain naked, poised gracefully over the edge of the bed. His palms fall to his lap, holding down the iridescent fabric, which looks like it could fall away at any moment. His hair is the same as it was at the feast—he would have had time for little else. But he looks thoroughly alluring just the way he is, and Elrond feels a large lump in his throat, completely at a loss for words. 

“My lord,” the young elf starts, voice whisper-quiet and honey-soft. “I... have been sent by my king to warm your bed for the night, if you will... ah... have me...” He fidgets as he says it. Elrond can feel the blood slowly draining from his face. When Elrond manages to say nothing, do nothing, the minstrel twitches nervously and rises from the bed, shying away from it and stepping forward, clutching the frail robes around him. He can’t seem to look up and meet Elrond’s eyes. The closer he comes, the more Elrond _wants_.

He dips to the floor in front of Elrond, falling to his bare knees on the thick rug. He bends to the floor, his neatly-brushed hair cascading around his slender shoulders to pool around him. It muffles his words when he mumbles, “If... if I am not acceptable, I...”

“You are not—” Elrond starts, only to cut off when the elf’s entire body flinches. Elrond hastily rephrases, “No, I did not intend—I simply meant to say that I would not require you to be here. You should not be ordered so. I do not... I do not use servants in this manner.” He wants the elf to rise. He can’t quite bring himself to want the elf to _leave_. His throat feels unusually dry, but he still tries to explain, “I will explain to king Thranduil myself in the morning, and I am sure he will understand. I apologize for the trouble I have caused you.”

The elf lifts his face timidly from the floor, eyes flickering up to watch Elrond in clear confusion. Elrond has to tell the poor thing, “Please rise.”

The elf obeys, but slowly, hesitantly, and lowers his gaze again when he’s on his feet, now directly in front of Elrond, close enough that Elrond could reach out and—

“I am sorry,” Elrond repeats, as firmly but sincerely as he can. He knows he has to say more and dismiss the elf, but the words won’t leave his mouth. The elf opens his but makes no noise, only shuts it again. Resisting the heavy urge to reach out and feel his near-trembling shoulders, Elrond sighs, “Please, speak if you wish to.”

The elf still looks torn. He opens and closes his mouth several times before finally murmuring, “It is not... I was very pleased to receive the summons, my lord.” He turns a bright scarlet immediately after saying it, ducking forward again, bowing so deeply that his head just barely brushes the front of Elrond’s robes, and this seems to startle him back up again, where he flushes all the deeper and splutters, “I-I was quite honoured, though of course, I did not expect—I did not presume to hope—I-I did not imagine I would truly be permitted to stay, forgive me, I will fetch another for you, I am, of course, dreadfully unworthy—”

Elrond lifts a hand to end the tirade, because he has no name with which to silence the elf. The young minstrel falls quiet immediately. Making a point of capturing the elf’s shimmering eyes, Elrond says slowly, deliberately, “You are _not_ unworthy.” If nothing else, the feeling in his stomach would prove that this elf is _perfect_ for him. The one the Valar wish him to want, and he _does_ ; it’s so difficult, even with all the words Elrond has left to say, to keep them apart. 

The elf mumbles before he can explain anymore, “You do not desire me.”

“I _do_.” He’s said it before he can stop himself. The young elf steps closer, toes wedged between his boots, their breath mingling in the air, and Elrond is hit again with the elf’s sweet scent. The elf’s pale skin is nearly shining, lit like a guiding star in Elrond’s night, radiating warmth and belonging. 

The elf murmurs, “Lord Elrond...”

“Your name,” Elrond asks, out so quickly that it sounds like an order.

The elf quickly provides, “Lindir.” The name seems to ripple across Elrond’s consciousness, embedded into it; he feels as though he almost _knew_ on some strange, primal level. 

Elrond repeats, “Lindir,” in a reverential whisper and finds it flows so easily off his tongue. Lindir finally _smiles_ , and it proves such a staggeringly beautiful sight that it changes Elrond’s direction entirely. In the back of his mind, he knows he _should_ send Lindir away, but he _can’t_ , and his hands are already rising to cup Lindir’s soft cheek, stroke his warm skin and brush back into his hair. Lindir leans into the touch, his lashes fluttering as his lips part in an erotic mewling sound that pushes Elrond over the edge. He doesn’t have the power to deny the instant attraction the Valar gave him. He tilts forward to meet Lindir in a searing kiss. 

He’s trapped from that moment. _Pleasure_ flares along the line of their mouths and his palm against Lindir’s cheek, bursting at each point of contact and ricocheting through the rest of him, too great to be denied. He _knows_ in that moment that Lindir is the mate of his soul. He parts his lips, his tongue pushing forward to claim Lindir’s mouth, and Lindir opens so easily for him, arching into him, two hands rising to clutch at his robes. Even through the fabric there, the touch ignites more points of blissful contact. Elrond curls his tongue inside Lindir’s mouth and pushes in, sweeps over everything, traces the entire circumference and loops around to do it again, following two perfect lines of teeth and lapping at the velvet tongue hidden in the middle—Lindir moans around him, such a sensuous, lust-drenched sound. He can feel Lindir flattening against him, though his eyes have fallen closed. One kiss becomes two, three, until he’s devouring Lindir again and again, only stopping when it’s clear he can’t stay upright much longer. Lindir’s lashes flutter only halfway open, pupils widely dilated, and he quietly begs, “ _Please_.”

Elrond nods. He kisses Lindir again, fierce but quickly ending it, tugging Lindir back, only to do it again, and they make their way to the bed in a tangled mess of searching hands and eager kisses. When their knees hit the sides, Elrond’s hand flies to Lindir’s sash, though he forces it still there. He realizes belatedly that Lindir is clinging to the collar of his robe, fingers poised on the metal clasp. Lindir searches Elrond’s eyes, and Elrond lays one hand over his, closing tight around it and trying to express one last time, “You do not need to do this—”

But Lindir whines, “ _Please_ ,” again, and Elrond can feel such _heat_ from him that it would seem cruel to push any harder for separation. So Elrond merely nods, and Lindir grins wide, hands rushing to undo Elrond’s clasp and fiddle open his robes. Elrond helps dispel the heavy fabric, lets it slide off his shoulders and down to the floor, and then pauses on the hem of his tunic.

He feels obligated to say, “I must warn you, I am not so young as you—” 

“You are _so_ handsome,” Lindir all but moans, to Elrond’s surprise. Lindir’s palms have already returned to his chest, smoothing over it, pressing through the fabric to feel what lies beneath—Elrond is still toned, having been a warrior once, but he has mortal blood and still knows he looks more haggard than his peers. Lindir doesn’t seem to mind and sighs, “I wanted to watch you during the feast, my lord, when I first saw you, but I did not dare hope...” He trails off, biting his bottom lip and staring straight at Elrond’s chest. 

For that, Elrond obliges. He peels his tunic off, dropping it alongside his robes, and lets Lindir eye his bared skin, his trim build and taut muscles, hardened with a few stray scars from ages past. Lindir stares at each one with a look of awe, fingers lifting delicately to touch. His trousers and boots are still left, but Elrond ignores them, instead reaching to pluck at the end of Lindir’s sash. Lindir chews his bottom lip between his teeth but nods, and Elrond pulls it free.

The fabric instantly slips from Lindir’s skin, sliding sensually down his subtle curves to pool at his feet, revealing nothing but creamy, flawless skin. Elrond doesn’t know where to look first: everything is a delight. Elrond eyes his rosy nipples, his trim waist, the smooth line of his stomach, and the soft dip between his thighs, bearing a few dark hairs and a lean shaft below, pink-tipped and already slightly crowning, slightly lifting, his legs shifting self-consciously around it. Lindir’s arms fall uselessly to his sides, and he mumbles, “Ah, I... I know I am not particularly... I am not much of a fighter, as my peers, and I am rather plain...”

“You are _stunning_ ,” Elrond concludes firmly, catching Lindir’s eye and holding it. 

Lindir smiles timidly and asks, “I still please you then, my lord?”

“Greatly,” Elrond decides with little difficulty. “...And I do not think ‘my lord’ should have any consequence now. You may address me simply as ‘Elrond,’ as I would call you only your name.”

Lindir’s eyes widen sharply, and he splutters, “But I cannot, it would not be right—”

“We are equals in this, Lindir,” Elrond insists, taking one of Lindir’s hands in his and lifting it to kiss. “It would be the only right way.”

Lindir still looks skeptical, but the more Elrond softly thumbs the back of his hand, the more he softens, until he murmurs experimentally, “Elrond...” It sounds so _right_ in his whimsical voice. It pulls Elrond down for another kiss, and he fiddles with the ties of his trousers while he slips his tongue back into Lindir’s mouth, sure it belongs there.

When his trousers hit the rug, he steps out of them, pausing the kiss only long enough to pull away his boots. Lindir glances down but is recaptured only a moment later, and then Elrond is scooping him up beneath his back and knees and turning him to the bed. 

He would’ve preferred this back in his own home, in his own bed, but then, the woman who first claimed to be drawn to him was from Lothlórien, and he traveled once for love. Thranduil’s guest quarters will do well enough for this—for first exploring the depth of the bond he’s been given. He sets Lindir tenderly down across the mattress, and Lindir lies luxuriously against the pillows, eyes sweeping over Elrond’s form. There’s no room to worry any more if his body is enough, because Lindir looks hard enough to burst and eyes Elrond with such _lust_ that it’s almost difficult to believe—it strange that someone so new and lovely could so desire him. He climbs onto the bed anyway and searches in the wooden nightstand—he knows enough of the Woodland Realm to expect the small vial of oil that he finds there. 

“You will take me?” Lindir asks, voice full of anticipation. 

Elrond uncaps the vial, pouring half the contents into his palm and replying, “If you wish.”

Lindir helpfully recaps the vial for him and sets it back on the nightstand, then settles back and murmurs, “I do... Elrond.” His reward is a warm smile, and that seems to help his confidence. 

As soon as Elrond maneuvers between Lindir’s legs, he parts them, lifting his knees high and reaching down to pull his cheeks apart—Elrond has to fight from groaning lewdly at the sight. With Lindir’s cock jutting off his stomach, tight stones resting between his thighs, Elrond’s given a perfect view of his tiny hole, pink and puckered and twitching lightly in the open air. It’s amazing to him that he could see this elf only a few hours ago and already be receiving this gift, but he knows the Valar meant it so. Hopefully, this will only be one night of many, his bed and heart never alone again. Lindir chews his lip as Elrond presses his oiled finger against the furrowed brim, savouring the heat and softness and moving in a gentle circle. 

He rubs at Lindir’s hole with care—he would never hurt this precious offering. But soon Lindir begs, “Oh, _please_ —” and Elrond can’t put it off any longer—he pushes the first fingertip slowly inside.

Lindir cries out at that, clenching down, but Elrond stills immediately, only the tip inside, and soon Lindir breathes again and nods. Elrond takes care to move at a gradual and steady pace, rocking ever so slightly in and out. It’s incredibly warm inside, desperately tight, but Elrond determinedly coats it in oil and coaxes it open, reaching right to the knuckle and swirling around several times before adding a second digit. Lindir accepts this with a hitch of breath. Elrond scissors him open, wider and wider, until Lindir whines, “Elrond, _ahhh_ , please, fill me, you must... ahhh...” He breaks off in a raunchy whine when Elrond withdraws his fingers.

He coats himself in the extra oil, completely hard and fully engorged—he’s sizeable, perhaps too much for Lindir’s tiny hole, but he reminds himself that the Valar would not will him to one that couldn’t take him. Lindir whimpers another, “Please,” and Elrond pushes forward, popping in with a wet squelch of oil and a sudden rush of ecstasy.

Lindir is _wondrous_ inside. The velvet grip of his fluttering walls is almost too much to take. He’s fire hot, and the pressure is exquisite, dizzying: Elrond can’t imagine what he’s done to merit such a prize. Lindir cries at the entrance and arches up, head tossing back in the pillows, and Elrond, no longer staying up to eye the pretty sight of Lindir’s opened hole, descends down over his lover. As soon as he’s within range, Lindir’s arms leap to his shoulders, and Elrond lets Lindir curl tightly around him with both hands and knees. He keeps his hips carefully above, only so he can continue sliding in at a measured pace, not wishing to feed Lindir too much at once.

Lindir is a delirious spiral of moans and cries, but Elrond can _feel_ that it’s only pleasure. Lindir’s fingers claw into his shoulder blades, thighs clinging to his sides, and he sinks himself further as quickly as he dares. Lindir is so tight but still takes him, still parts for him, until he’s reached the very base and has nothing left to give. He knows he’s panting hard in Lindir’s ear, but Lindir is doing the same. He can smell a change—the musk of _sex_ and the slight tinge of sweat. He pauses to grind into Lindir’s pliant body, wracking out one mindless whimper after another, and then he slowly draws out again, to Lindir’s needy whine.

He makes it only to the head, then can’t bear to be apart any longer, and pushes back in, sinking again to the hilt. Lindir’s quivering channel takes him gladly. Lindir nuzzles into the crook of Elrond’s neck and buries a whimper in his shoulder, open mouth dampening his skin. For the next thrust, Elrond nudges Lindir’s cheek with his nose, and Lindir obeys the silent request, turning to meet his kiss.

Everywhere they touch is a blazing spark of light. Elrond is boiled down to sheer instinct: the will and want to claim _his mate_ , and his hips snap to life for it, driving into Lindir again and again. He fills Lindir’s mouth with his tongue and is delighted when Lindir starts to tentatively kiss him back, until Lindir’s tongue is finally dancing back into his mouth, and they’re exchanging saliva evenly between them. One of Elrond’s elbows stays in the pillows, propping him up, that hand twisting around a few tendrils of Lindir’s silken hair, while the other slides between them to wrap around Lindir’s cock. Lindir mewls into his mouth, and Elrond pumps the hard shaft in time with his thrusts, wanting Lindir to be as overwhelmed in bliss as he is. The harmony between them is a spiritual paradise. He’s overrun with _pleasure_.

For a long while, Elrond makes love to Lindir, heedless of the rest of the world around him, wanting only _this_ , the other half of his soul made to fit so cleanly in his arms. Each thrust into Lindir’s waiting body is a new spasm of delight, each kiss a new burst of joy. They become the two trees of Valinor themselves, lighting in tandem to their own melody, until even they meet their limits, burning out in the intoxicating rapture.

Like only two soulmates could, they finish together. Elrond spills himself into Lindir’s cloying heat, his finishing cry more a languid moan, Lindir answer it just as sincerely. He can feel Lindir tensing in his palm and bursting over his fingers, but he keeps going, keeps thrusting forward and pumping Lindir’s cock, milking them both of everything that’s left. He hits a wall in a torrential flood of pleasure, which numbs him to his very edges, and then the wind’s left him, and he’s left slowly puttering to a stop in a whirring spiral. 

Utterly satiated, he lifts himself up, pulling out, fully spent but unwilling to crush his gorgeous lover. Lindir smiles up at him with eyes dimpled from an enormous smile. Elrond doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anyone looks so happy. 

He presses a tender kiss to Lindir’s forehead, then collapses beside him. It’s some time before either moves or speaks. Elrond simply basks in the lingering pleasantness.

But eventually, the cold creeps back in, and Elrond rises, lifting the covers. Lindir sheepishly sits up too, and Elrond finds himself noting, “I confess, I did not expect to find you here.”

Lindir’s brow knits, confused, though surely it’s obvious what Elrond means—how strange to find his destiny in the Woodland Realm. 

Elrond goes on, “And one so young and beautiful, no less.”

Lindir smiles again and shyly tucks a few stray strands of fallen hair behind his ear, glancing away. He murmurs softly, “I am very flattered, my lord.”

Then, strangely, he slips over the edge of the bed, and reaches down to collect his robes.

Before he can get dressed again, Elrond sidles over and reaches out to capture his wrist, drawing his gaze. The return of the title is enough to confuse Elrond—he thought he’d made himself clear. The bonding of souls doesn’t exist only in bed. He wonders if he could’ve possibly misunderstood—if Lindir doesn’t feel the same way that Elrond does. It wouldn’t be the first time the Valar were cruel enough to doom one to eternal longing or struggling compromise.

But when Elrond asks, “Will you not stay?” Lindir smiles again and lifts the covers, crawling right back into bed. Elrond follows and gathers Lindir’s face in his hands, pulling it forward for a final kiss. Lindir meets him with such warmth that Elrond is sure he didn’t misunderstand at all. When he settles down against the pillow, Lindir looks incredibly content, before he turns and blows out the candles. 

Through the darkness, Elrond can perfectly feel the warm body snuggling into his arms. No one has ever felt so _right_ there. They curl around one another in silence, and soon Elrond has drifted off, flying into dazzling dreams.

* * *

Yet in the morning Elrond wakes to an empty bed, and all signs of Lindir are gone.


	2. Ash

It’s a difficult thing, to go on as before. He lived without a true feeling of _completion_ all his life, and he never even knew it could be _that strong_. But now that he’s had it and it’s left, there’s a certain numbness in its wake that Elrond finds difficult to dispel. 

Lindir isn’t among the servants that bring water for his bath. A pretty, honey-haired youth offers to stay and wash his back, which Elrond heavily suspects is at Thranduil’s bidding, but he politely declines and soaks himself in the warm tides. He knows of the hot springs hidden deep within the palace and momentarily considers wandering there. Once, he would’ve shied away from a place so full of naked bodies, but now he wonders if Lindir might take comfort in such heat. Elrond dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it came; Lindir seemed hardly the type for public bathing.

Elrond dries himself, dresses in a new set of crimson robes, and picks at the meal that’s brought for him. Breakfast in one’s quarters is hardly unusual in the Woodland Realm, given their propensity for heavy drinking the night before. Elrond’s head isn’t as clear as he would like, but the fog isn’t from wine.

There are a number of things he would usually attend to—acquaintances to visit, a library to explore, a treaty or two to revise—but all of it has lost its taste. He wants only one thing, and he eventually gives in to following the thread that tugs him through the door.

* * *

Thranduil’s caverns are vast, varied, and beautiful, but Elrond has eyes for very little. He wanders the halls on mere intuition, having no real path. He doesn’t bother the few servants he passes—he wouldn’t know what to say. It would be wrong, he thinks, to summon an elf that already left him. By that logic, it’s equally as wrong to seek that elf out. But he can’t help himself. When he crosses the path of the captain of Thranduil’s guards, she stops to ask, “May I help you with anything, my lord?”

He gives her a dull smile and replies, “I think not, thank you,” though in truth, if anyone would know his destination, surely it would be her. It would be part of her job, he thinks, to know the layout of everyone’s quarters. She bows to him and continues on her way. He does the same.

He wonders, in the wake of her fire-red hair, so reminiscent of another great warrior that he once lost, if he misunderstood. He’d thought their connection mutual, thought the desire in Lindir’s eyes came from the fulfillment of a bond. But it’s equally as possible, he must sadly admit, that Lindir felt no such pull, and only sought pleasure in a one-night arrangement with a visiting lord. Elrond isn’t much, but Lindir seemed not to know his own value, and perhaps sought no other prospects. It would be just Elrond’s unfortunate luck to share in yet another relationship doomed only to failure.

It would be better, in that case, to leave Lindir be. And he might, if not for the end of his wandering—he hits a dead-end at the arched railing of a balcony, looking out over the canopy of trees.

The air lilts with a quiet song, and Elrond lifts his head to spot the subject of his desires only a little ways away, perched upon a higher balcony with a small, wooden harp in his lap. He plucks at the strings with the delicacy of a nightingale and hums softly in the breeze. Three velvet-black butterflies flutter against his robes as he sings, another four dancing along the slanted roof above him. The creatures are common in the forest, one of the few benign species left, but they seem to revel in the song as greatly as Elrond’s heart. As with the feast, he’s caught again in a trance, avidly listening to the sheer art that Lindir births from his fingers and lips. 

It doesn’t seem possible that this could be unrequited. Elrond finds himself drifting to the very edge of the balcony, hands sliding onto the railing, the wind stirring his hair and bring each note straight to his ears like it was spun solely for him. Lindir’s eyes are closed, lashes dark against his soft cheeks, mouth almost open in a smile. The tune is sorrowful, bittersweet. The words are nonsensical in story but poignant in their description, forming paintings instead of plots. There are many minstrels in Imladris, but none with this _power_ over him. He wonders how he managed never to hear it before. Surely if he’d had the good fortune on his last visit to pass by such a song, he would be thoroughly ensnared.

And perhaps still sent home again, without a rightful partner at his side. The memory of waking up alone stings, but it can’t diminish the peace around him: the music is too alluring to let him frown.

“There you are,” a sudden voice breaks into his reverie, cool and deep. “Tauriel informed that you were here. If you wish a view of my realm, there is a better one from my chambers...”

Elrond minutely shakes his head, murmuring, “That is quite alright.” Theoretically, the discussion should end, but he isn’t surprised when Thranduil doesn’t leave.

Thranduil comes to stand beside him, following his gaze up to the balcony, and snorts. It snaps the spell entirely, and Elrond turns to look at him properly, relinquishing the lovely sight of Lindir. 

Thranduil is as regal as ever, dressed in glistening silver robes and a crown of autumn leaves, his handsome face drawing into a smug look of satisfaction. Elrond knows what’s coming before Thranduil even says it. “I must ask, as a matter of hospitality, if you enjoyed your evening. I do hope my gift was to your satisfaction.”

Another elf is not a gift. Elrond doesn’t bother saying it—Elrond knows, for all of Thranduil’s pompous language, that he wouldn’t truly send a sentient creature to act beyond their will. The number of just how many residents of Mirkwood try to ingratiate themselves to their king is still disquieting. And Thranduil’s attitude is... not the same as Elrond’s. 

It’s easier to simply sigh, “I did, thank you.” He weathers the knowing grin that follows, hoping that’s the end of it, but of course, it isn’t.

“I must admit I was surprised with the choice in your gaze; he is not one I usually send to guests. I cannot imagine you were given the full extent of the normal Greenwood skill, but there is no accounting for taste. As dull as he is, I suppose you are no thrill yourself. Perhaps it is a good match, then?”

Elrond gives Thranduil a dry look and says nothing more on it—he can tell when he’s being goaded. It’s almost tempting to defend Lindir, for Lindir was certainly more than satisfactory, but then, that doesn’t seem something that Thranduil should have to know. When Elrond doesn’t rise to the bait, Thranduil gestures back into his keep and suggests, “Perhaps I could tempt you with a more excitable creature. As I am sure you must have heard, we have delights here that Imladris could hardly dream of. I hear you rejected the one I sent for your bath—too young, perhaps? I could line up more candidates, as it seems your preferences are fickle. Surely there are plenty who would volunteer to provide such charity.”

As much as Elrond doesn’t count himself a great catch, he also wouldn’t consider it _charity_. But again, he only answers, “That will not be necessary, thank you.” For a quick, fleeting moment, Thranduil looks annoyed at not being able to drag on the conversation.

Before he finds a way, Elrond looks back to the balcony above—the music has stopped. He’s sad to see that Lindir has left, only two of the seven butterflies remaining in the open space. 

He half expects Thranduil to make some joke of it, but when Elrond turns again, Thranduil looks only pensive. It prompts Elrond to ask more seriously, quiet and carefully, “What does he do here?” The question is meant broadly, respectfully, not in regards to the personal affairs Thranduil often deals with.

Thranduil answers him on that level, commenting idly, “Not much. From the little I know of him, he makes for a poor warrior, which is what my woods have the greatest need of now. I have yet to see him imbibe, and I am told he makes for poor company, which, again, is uncommon amongst my people. He has only recently asked to play for me, and you already know my opinion of that.” 

Elrond nods thoughtfully, though he disagrees with the poor company part—he quite enjoyed having Lindir in his quarters. But Imladris has quite different standards, and he supposes he should be grateful that Thranduil knows anything at all of one Silvan servant. Lindir must have done something more to be thusly noteworthy, and Elrond wonders, however nonsensically, if Lindir might be the one elf in all of Mirkwood _not_ eager for the summons of his king. 

Thranduil waves a sudden, dismissive hand, and remarks, “You will not be here long—we should not waste your visit on talk of such trivial matters. If you want him again tonight, I will send him. Until then, I think you and I should go for a stroll, and you can tell me more of what a strapping young man Estel has become. You should have brought him; Legolas really must meet him one day.”

“Perhaps when he is skilled enough with a sword,” Elrond answers, joining Thranduil as they duck back into the keep. They speak of the trying times about them, but Elrond’s mind is still in song.

* * *

The rest of his day is largely uneventful. He doesn’t see Lindir again and spends most of his hours occupied with Thranduil, company that is at times entertaining and others quite tiresome. Little else has changed in all the Woodland Realm, though Thranduil insists his crown was forged only seven nights ago. Elrond can’t see the difference from last year’s autumn crown.

Dinner is again something of a feast, though smaller and without the music. Lindir attends to him, saying nothing, as is the custom of Mirkwood servants, though Elrond would have them discuss something, anything. Instead, Thranduil gripes over Galadriel’s latest letter, and Elrond makes strategic, noncommittal noises of ascent to appease him. Thranduil constantly snaps his fingers for more wine, but Lindir swiftly catches on to Elrond’s preference and fills his glass with water instead. It’s appreciated. Estel, he thinks, would like Lindir; he’s shown a preference for Elven songs.

Elladan and Elrohir would never let him hear the end of an affair with an elf who can’t be much older than them, though it would be more in jest than Thranduil, and Arwen would be painfully understanding. None would truly _deny_ him it; the soul bonds as it does.

Lindir always averts his eyes from Elrond’s stare. He must not feel the same. But he studiously attends Elrond anyway, and by the time dinner is over, Elrond is quite sure he’s stared enough for both of them.

* * *

His room is empty when he turns, but he’s only just changed into a light tunic and silken trousers when a knock sounds on his doors. He knows who it is before he answers. He opens one door wide enough for Lindir to enter, and Lindir does so with his head bowed. The guard stationed outside doesn’t look twice. Elrond closes the door again.

It’s strangely harder, this time, to turn to Lindir, who’s dressed in the same flimsy, too-short robes he bore last night. He looks very much an _offering_ , but there’s distance between them now, erected through Lindir’s choice and Elrond’s confusion. Lindir keeps his head ducked, which makes it difficult to read his face, though his lips wear a subtle frown. Elrond doesn’t know what to say, so he waits for Lindir to begin.

Lindir seems to be waiting for the same thing. After a stretching, silent moment, he steps forward, then tentatively leans in to brush his lips over Elrond’s. His eyes stay half-lidded through it, and it’s over too fast for Elrond to react. The surge of adrenaline’s still there. He wants to drag Lindir in by the hair for a heated, proper kiss, full of teeth and tongue, but he restrains himself. Lindir licks his plush lips, then retreats and strolls past Elrond to the bed.

Elrond follows. There’s something distinctly _wrong_ about this, though Lindir himself feels _right_ , and Elrond still hopes that Thranduil wouldn’t force him into anything. Lindir doesn’t climb onto the bed, only stares at it, so Elrond sits down first, perched gingerly on the edge. Lindir hesitantly lifts his hands to Elrond’s shoulders, then climbs forward into Elrond’s lap. His parting thighs force the skirt of his robes to hike up around his middle, legs bared as they brace themselves in the mattress. He perches, feather light, atop Elrond, as though afraid to drop any weight upon him. Lindir rocks his slender hips once into Elrond’s stomach, drawing out a hitch of breath that Elrond didn’t intend to give, and then Lindir is ducking in for another kiss. 

The flare of _touch_ isn’t as strong as it was, but Elrond knows that isn’t for lack of want—there’s something else going on. Lindir can’t seem to bring himself to deepen the kiss, only keeps it chaste, and that makes it easier for Elrond to lift his hands to Lindir’s hips and gently steady them. Lindir tries to buck once against him, but the attempt is too weak to do anything, and he quickly stills afterwards. He withdraws his mouth from Elrond, pulling back with knitted brows and parted lips. He looks so worried, distinctly troubled, not at all what one should be in the arms of their soulmate. Elrond forces his voice calm and asks, “What is wrong?”

Lindir parts his lips but manages no words. Then he shakes his pretty head, bows it, and answers quietly, “Nothing.” Elrond knows that can’t be true. He waits for Lindir to lift his head again and mumble forlornly, “M-my lord, my king... asked me to attend to you... I said I would fulfill your every whim...” His body trembles in Elrond’s hands. He’s redeveloped an inability to look Elrond in the eyes.

Elrond lifts one hand to his chin, lifting it to force their eyes to connect. He can see the war waging behind Lindir’s. He insists softly, “Lindir, I would have you do _nothing_ you do not wish to.” 

Lindir nods his head lightly in Elrond’s grasp, like he knows. But he still looks truly torn. He fights the hand at his chin, leaning forward again despite it. The kiss is too innocent and strangely melancholy. Lindir eyes Elrond’s lips afterwards like he could lose himself in them, and Elrond can’t tell whether he wants to or not. He murmurs, “I _do want you_...” 

Elrond wants Lindir with everything he is. His fingers want to tighten in Lindir’s hips, but he won’t let them. He wants to roll them over, pin Lindir down into the mattress, and grind them together until all of Lindir’s other worries melt away.

But it would be wrong, and Elrond waits until Lindir whispers, “But I think it would be best if I did not.”

Elrond doesn’t understand. 

But he lets Lindir climb weakly off his lap, standing up again like a newborn fawn with big, sad eyes. Lindir spares one last look, then bows and swiftly leaves.

Elrond lies slowly back across the bed and wonders why the Valar despise him so.


	3. Sun

He goes the entire day without sight of Lindir. The thread of _want_ still draws him forward, this way and that, but he resists its pull and goes about his business as he otherwise would. He’s denied himself pleasures before, though none so great. It tests his resolve. He wins.

He feels as though he’s lost a good deal, though he has no less than he came with. By the time supper is ready, he isn’t in the mood for Thranduil’s haughty air, but he doesn’t slink to another table—he’s a lord, and he has obligations. He fulfills them. He makes for, as Thranduil puts it, “even duller company than usual.”

A different elf serves him. She smiles sweetly at him whenever he spares her a look. He’s grateful when she doesn’t appear in his quarters later: perhaps Thranduil has finally given up.

* * *

Thranduil abandons him on the fourth day. Elrond attends to his own habits, heading for the library while Thranduil is off consulting his guard. Prince Legolas offers Elrond a place in the patrol with a knowing glint in his eyes—perhaps trying to spare Elrond Thranduil’s odd companionship. Elrond appreciates the gesture and Legolas’ affability, but he doesn’t derive the same joy from battle that his woodland kin seem to. To him, drawing his sword is only a necessary evil, and he hasn’t worn one since his arrival in the palace.

The stretching library of the Woodland Realm, strewn across many interwoven rooms, is a true work of art, but Elrond doesn’t quite make it through the doors. He’s only just reached the end of the hall when a flicker of song catches his ear, and he comes to a stop. The notes fading around him are melancholy, but the tune appeals to him nonetheless. He turns in its direction and follows the sound up a spiraling staircase, along another corridor, and into a small, secluded room with open windows and one lone occupant inside.

He knew the minstrel before he came, but the song was too sad to leave. Lindir is turned towards the window, his fingers gliding elegantly along a small harp set in his lap, his legs folded on a wooden chair. The room is sparse, bearing only a few instruments and tables with parts for repair. There is no lighting but that of the afternoon sun strewn down in yellow lines. Lindir reaches the end of his chorus and looks over his shoulder, cheeks already flushed. Elrond bows his head in greeting.

“You play beautifully,” Elrond offers. Lindir turns all the redder and looks hurriedly away, hands falling to twist nervously in his lap.

He mumbles, “Thank you,” but doesn’t sound as though he believes it. 

Elrond insists, “Please, do not stop on my account. I will leave you to your music, if you wish...”

Lindir splutters a little, “No,” then hurriedly stiffens and shakes his head, muttering, “I-I mean, please, you are welcome to stay, if you... that is, I am almost finished... I am not equipped to truly play in court...”

“You are not in court,” Elrond tells him gently, “Although I think you more than fit for it. You performed quite well at the feast of my arrival.”

Lindir manages a little smile and murmurs, “I was quite honoured to play there.”

And Elrond was honoured to hear him. With a glance about the room, Elrond spots another chair and moves to pull it from its table, taking a seat only an arm’s length from Lindir. He’s slow on purpose, giving time for Lindir to protest, but Lindir merely works his bottom lip between his teeth and watches from below long lashes. When Elrond’s settled and offered no more conversation, Lindir turns back to his harp, sucks in a deep breath, and resumes his song. 

At first, it’s only the instrument, trilling demurely on its own, powerful, but lacking—it’s Lindir’s voice that Elrond now craves. It’s several scores before Lindir’s lips finally part, a stray word twisting out, mingling with the music to bring the piece to new heights. In another place, Elrond might close his eyes to drift away in the melody, but here, he can’t take his eyes off Lindir. Lindir watches the strings he deftly plucks. With each new verse, he seems to gain confidence, until his lyrics are as strong as the harp, the two interwoven in perfect harmony. If the rest of Elrond’s visit was nothing but this, all of every day, he would be happy. One song stretches into another, and another, and Elrond enjoys every one: this is the language of his soul.

But eventually, Lindir’s hands slow, his voice growing hoarse, and he falls to a quiet end, the final notes reverberating in Elrond’s memory. He vows to hold onto him. Elrond breathes again, now reverent: “ _Beautiful._ ”

Lindir smiles. He shyly tucks a few locks of hair behind his ear, then turns to Elrond and asks, “Are there minstrels in Rivendell?”

“Yes,” Elrond answers, adding fondly, “But none, unfortunately, quite like you.”

Lindir looks like he might laugh. Instead, he turns away and plays with his sleeve. “...Do you play, my lord?”

“I have no gift for it.” He distinctly remembers the first time he tried—sneaking into Maglor’s study when he was very young and plucking at a silver harp brought from Valinor itself. Elros had teased him for his clumsy playing, and Elrond was not mature enough then to push through, but rather chased Elros down the hall and told Maedhros that it was Elros’ idea in the first place.

With a wistful sigh, Elrond elaborates, “I do know the workings of it—Maglor was a patient teacher. But I never learned a fraction of his skill, nor of yours.” 

That recaptures Lindir’s direct attention, his eyes going very wide. His shock lasts another minute, and then he whispers in awe, “Maglor? Of the one and only _Fëanor_?” When Elrond nods his head, Lindir gasps, “But he is one of the greatest minstrels that ever lived!”

“He was,” Elrond hums thoughtfully. “Or is, I should say, for his fate is not written of. If he ever returns to me, I will have to tell him of the young minstrel of Mirkwood who plays such sad songs.”

Lindir flushes red to the very tips of his ears. For a moment, it looks like he might faint.

But then he turns his chair around to face Elrond’s, sets his harp on the nearest table, and he bows his head low enough that the tips of his long hair brush the ground. He bids as he lifts his face again, “Please, my lord. ...Tell me of Maglor’s music.”

So Elrond does.

* * *

The sky passes to purple before Elrond takes much notice, so enthralled with the conversation as he is. He finds the words flow easily from his tongue, while Lindir listens avidly to every detail, and when it’s Lindir’s turn to reply, he does so with gusto. He’s still quiet, soft, but he opens to Elrond like a flower in spring, and the beauty of it is dazzling. When Elrond tells Lindir of the time a young Arwen tried to repair a harp she broke with one of her own hairs, as though Elrond would not be able to tell the difference between a clear string and her dark locks, Lindir erupts in bubbling laughter. He looks delighted when Elrond speaks of Imladris, of the view of the valley and the courtyard where the most minstrels gather, and of the strange guests he’s had over the years, bringing new songs and stories. Then they speak of tales, of old legends and worn books, and Elrond finds Lindir as well versed in prose as poetry. The Valar, he thinks, certainly know how to tempt him.

In the warmth of their discussion, it’s easy to forget that just last night, Lindir excused himself from _more_. Perhaps, Elrond supposes, it could be less than he feared, yet more than he hoped—perhaps Lindir _does_ wish to be with him, but simply doesn’t wish to _lie_ with him, or perhaps Lindir is bound to another but drawn to Elrond as well. There must be _something_ to it, because the way Lindir looks at Elrond is not the way of one that wants to leave.

But they both must soon enough. When a set of footsteps passes the door—the first outside sound since Elrond entered—it startles them out of their reverie, and Lindir glances out the window to murmur, “Oh, the feast will begin soon...”

Sure enough, Tauriel appears in the doorway, bowing to Elrond to announce, “My lord, King Thranduil requests your presence.”

Elrond thinks to tell her he’ll be a while yet, but before he gets the chance, Lindir jerks to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over in the process. “Forgive me,” he gushes, bending low again. “I did not mean to delay you so, my lord. I will leave you to the king.”

Elrond starts, “Lindir—” But it’s too late, and Lindir’s already taking off around Tauriel, back down the corridor. It isn’t until his footsteps have entirely receded that Elrond realizes he’s left the harp.

Tauriel says, “He will return for it, I am sure. Shall I escort you to the dining hall?”

* * *

The feast is much the same as the night before, and when it’s finished, Elrond takes the scenic route to his quarters—he passes by the room from earlier and finds Lindir’s harp still where it was left.

It’s entirely possible that the harp is meant to be there; the room, after all, contains a number of instruments in various states of repair. It’s also possible that Lindir means to return and simply hasn’t yet had the chance. It would be sensible to leave it, and yet, Elrond finds his fingers closing around the base. 

He drifts through the halls in a dream-like state, following some intangible sense that guides him as sure as any rope. He bypasses his own quarters completely, not bothering to stop and check with those he passes. Somehow, he _knows_ his steps fall true, and they guide him to one of many doors along the servants’ hall. He finally pauses there, unsure if it’s right to knock. It might be best to leave the harp outside and spare Lindir the difficulty of a greeting. But there was nothing difficult in their time together earlier, and with the hope that Lindir’s mind has changed, Elrond finally raps against the door.

It takes a moment to open, and when it does, Lindir stands on the other side, dressed in silken night-robes with his long hair half-braided over one shoulder. He looks at Elrond in surprise, though Elrond can always feel now when Lindir is close to him. Elrond holds out the harp and greets, “Forgive me, but you left this, and I thought I might return it.”

With one hand on the door and the other holding his robes closed at the collar, Lindir has no hands left with which to take it. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then steps aside, head lowered, and splutters, “P-please, my lord, come in.” Elrond’s already following the invitation when Lindir tacks on, “That is, if you wish...”

Elrond does. He stands in the middle of Lindir’s room while Lindir closes the door again, shutting out the light of the hall in favour of the candles lit about the walls. The room is fairly small, made to feel more so with the cavern walls, though in truth, it probably spans as much space as those in Elrond’s home. But Imladris is fitted with many doors, windows, and balconies that lend to a more open feeling. Lindir’s room has no other doors, merely shelves, dressers, a table, a desk with a round mirror, and a fair-sized bed. Lindir crosses the circular rug to pluck the harp from Elrond’s hands and set it on the table.

Then he bows, his free hand returning to hold his braid still, and mumbles, “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate it.” As he straightens, his eyes shine with genuine gratitude. The mixed signals hardly help—Elrond doesn’t understand how he could be both denied and invited in. Lindir doesn’t seem to have many answers himself, and he twists his hair self-consciously around his fingers while he adds, “Please, you must forgive me for the mess... I was attempting a new style, and it seems I have knotted myself...” He pauses in a small, self-disparaging laugh. His hair is the only thing he could mean; his quarters are spotless. “Of course, I should not trouble you with such things...”

Elrond’s moved to Lindir again. When he’s close, he can indeed see the intricate design of more delicate braids embedded in the larger one, though they all unravel near the end. He lifts a hand halfway, pausing it in midair to wait for Lindir’s permission, and when Lindir doesn’t move away, Elrond threads his fingers into the plume of soft hair. Lindir’s breath seems to hold as Elrond gently combs through it, detangling what he can, and notes absently, “I used to braid the hair of my children, when they were young. I profess I have not practiced the skill much since...” He catches in a snag, and it results in a sharp tug that makes Lindir gasp. Elrond withdraws quickly, though the breathless noise and the sight of Lindir’s flushed cheeks is already getting to him. He finds himself offering, “Yet, perhaps I could help, if you would permit it...”

Lindir seems to toy with the idea. His lashes have fallen, half-lidded eyes a tad dilated, and they watch Elrond’s hands with something that looks very near to longing. Elrond holds himself patient and waits for the decision, neither encouraging it like he wishes nor the opposite. Finally, Lindir mumbles, “Please,” and sweeps past him towards the bed. 

It’s the only place for two to comfortably sit—either Lindir doesn’t regularly entertain guests in his quarters, or he only does so in bed. It doesn’t help matters as Elrond settles onto the plush mattress, Lindir sitting cross-legged before him. Careful not to pull again, Elrond gathers Lindir’s smooth hair into his fingers and begins to untie the larger braid. The smaller ones, he leaves in place, though he moves to finish and tighten them afterwards, while Lindir sits quietly and still, wafting a gentle warmth that Elrond knows will be difficult to leave. Lindir’s presence, even hushed, is infinitely appealing.

Lindir murmurs quietly, as Elrond finally sets in again on the larger braid, “You are... a very different lord than my king.”

“I am,” Elrond concedes, wondering if he and Thranduil have _anything_ in common, beyond goodwill towards their people. “I admit that most of what you have heard of me is likely true.”

“You are a fierce warrior,” Lindir quietly supposes. It’s hardly the first description Elrond would give to himself, but he has seen battle. Lindir continues, “Yet you are also very kind, and all are welcome in your home.”

Mainly to divert from his embarrassment over the compliment, Elrond corrects, “Almost all; I do not usually invite orcs in to play.”

Lindir giggles. It wrenches Elrond’s heart. It astounds him that he should be able to provoke something so sweet. He finishes the end of the braid, and Lindir must feel it, for he turns in Elrond’s arms, looking sheepishly into Elrond’s eyes. 

It’s a perfect moment. Every bone in Elrond’s body screams that this is _right_. Lindir leans in to brush their lips together, lashes slipping closed and mouth opening to Elrond’s ready tongue—what should be a chaste, slow start quickly unwinds into a rush of hot _desire_ : Elrond cups Lindir’s face and holds Lindir still as he grinds them together. His tongue curls in Lindir’s mouth, his thumb brushing Lindir’s cheek and teeth nipping lightly at Lindir’s moist lips. The kiss stretches into many, with Elrond powerless to stop, and Lindir arches forward, moaning into his mouth, trembling in his grasp—

Only to pull away and whisper, eyebrows knit in tangible pain, “I am sorry.”

Elrond doesn’t understand. But Lindir hangs his head and repeats, “I am sorry, I am so sorry.” He holds the back of his hand against his mouth, shaking. Elrond only wants to hold him. 

But Lindir chokes, “I cannot—” and Elrond knows a dismissal when he hears one.

He withdraws from Lindir. He rises from the bed, deliberately slow and giving time for explanation, but Lindir only turns away, and Elrond isn’t sure enough of the circumstances to force it. He hopes he’s made his position clear and has left the next move in Lindir’s hands. 

He leaves the room with a sense of _wrongness_ twisting in his stomach, but such is the pain of this earth.

* * *

Even in the emptiness of his own quarters, he can _feel_ Lindir, hovering just out of reach. He thinks Lindir wants him. He felt that too. But that isn’t enough, so Elrond tosses and turns in the too-large bed he’s been given, trying desperately to block it out. 

He doesn’t manage. He considers touching himself, something he hasn’t done in years, but it would feel too sad, after having known Lindir. It’s a strange, bitter loneliness. 

He gets little rest and knows he’s ruined.

* * *

On his fifth day, he keeps himself in check. He doesn’t go where his heart bids and doesn’t see Lindir at all. It makes for a morose feast; his time is swiftly drawing to an end, and he’ll have to leave alone. He indulges in more wine than usual and half wishes that Lindir were the one attending him to replace the wine with water again. Even Thranduil eventually notices his sour mood. 

Thranduil tilts his own cup to the brim of Elrond’s and splashes in another dose of amber liquid. Elrond downs it like the rest, but it does little beyond blurring his vision. Thranduil waves for another bottle, and finally, Elrond must excuse himself from the table due to a growing headache. 

By the time he makes it back to his quarters, his head is pounding. He welcomes the pain and lets it suck him into sleep, a young minstrel dancing in his dreams.

* * *

He wakes with a raging migraine that’s entirely deserved. It wasn’t how he planned to spend the rest of his visit, but at least it’s a fitting excuse to stay locked away. Tomorrow is his final day, and this one he plans to spend safely under the covers. He slips back to sleep several times before his mind forces him awake, now somewhat cleared. Servants bring him a breakfast that he declines. They offer to bring water for his bath, but he doesn’t want to bother. He lies between sheets for as long as he can manage, until he can’t take the sloping cavern walls any longer. A quick walk through the woods, he thinks, and perhaps he’ll be able to crawl back and drift away again. It isn’t how he usually conducts his visits, but he knows that even lords sometimes require respite. 

Once he’s dressed and wandering through the halls, he tries not to follow the pull that still calls to him. He’s overstepped already. But he’s near the gate when he gets a sudden stab of _fear_ so poignant that at first, he thinks it his own. He sways on the spot, needing to clutch the wall for support, and sheer horror prickles along his skin, sinking into his flesh, absorbed by his own consciousness. He realizes then that the fear belongs to his soulmate, and the rush of worry that follows drowns out that terror. 

Lurching to his feet, Elrond all but flies down the corridor, racing to the gates quick enough to surpass several rushing guards. He isn’t dressed for a fight and brought no weapon, but Legolas oversees a circle of archers near the bridge and stops to call to him, “Lord Elrond, it is not safe in the woods at this moment. A horde of spiders has advanced on one of our camps.” 

And Lindir must be in that camp. The weight of another’s panic still surrounds him. He takes comfort in the knowledge that so long as that bond is there, Lindir must still be alive, and in a forest as dangerous as this, that’s a blessing. Elrond, breathing hard from the run, swallows it back and demands, “I will need a sword.”

“There is no need for you to risk yourself. We will dispel them—”

“Legolas,” Elrond interrupts, voice razor-sharp; he’s no longer a guest, but a wizened fighter facing a child. “I require a blade.”

Legolas’ face is just as serious. He’s grown much since Elrond’s last stay, and he doesn’t argue again. He plucks a knife from his shoulder and spins it, grasping the edge and holding the hilt to Elrond. Elrond takes it with a grateful nod; Legolas has two other knives about his person and his bow at his back. Before any more can be said, Elrond takes off again across the bridge. The rustle of footsteps quickly follows, leaping over the underbrush with practiced skill. Elrond has little experience in such terrain, but instinct drives him, and this time, he listens.

It’s only a few minutes at their rapid pace before the disquieting throes of battle can be heard through the trees—Elrond runs all the faster for it. A spider bursts from the trees on his left and nearly overtakes him, but he doesn’t pause to fight it, and an archer swiftly shoots it down. Another spider descends through the branches, but Elrond ducks beneath it and leaves it for the guard—he isn’t far.

He breaks into a small clearing before any of the others and finds it littered with signs of use—the carefully layered wood of a campfire has been kicked aside, various boxes and satchels overturned, herbs and other pickings scattered about the floor. A lone, golden-haired elf fights a spider on the other side, but she slays it while Elrond watches, her sword skewering its body and tossing it to its back. Elrond twists on his feet and resumes his chase, then hears the scream. 

He’s through the trees in a heartbeat and has only a fraction of a second to digest the scene: Lindir’s fallen to the ground, his ankle twisted in the foliage, one of the giant spiders rearing up before him. Elrond leaps between them without a second thought, slashing the blade straight across the creature’s middle, and a savage kick sends it flying back, legs flailing in the air. He doesn’t spare the time to finish it off, because more will only come, and it’s more important that he get Lindir up. Lindir is shaking and sticky with stray fibers of webbing, clinging to his robes and hair. Elrond tucks the blood-soaked knife into the sash at his waist and bends to help Lindir off the ground.

Lindir can’t seem to stop trembling. He doesn’t speak. He clings tightly to Elrond as soon as Elrond’s close enough, and Elrond’s left to fish his foot out of the underbrush. As Elrond gathers Lindir up into his arms, a guard rushes past him to put the spider out of its misery. Elrond considers returning the knife but swiftly thinks better of it—he may need it on his return.

The spiders, he leaves to Legolas; no doubt the Woodland Realm can handle its own trouble, and he’s not equipped for battle. Lindir is nearly comatose in his arms, clutching weakly to his robes and burrowing into the crook of his neck. Elrond carries Lindir silently back through the woods, the bond, for now, appeased.

* * *

It takes two servants to remove all the tendrils of the spider’s web, and Lindir sits gingerly on the edge of Elrond’s bed throughout it, still shaking and whining softly when they tug too hard. Elrond chose his own quarters just for this: when he requests medicinal pastes and a bath drawn, the servants are quick to comply.

They wait in the main room while the tub is filled with heated spring water in the smaller, attached room meant for washing. Elrond sits as close as he dares without actually _touching_ , because he thinks his presence, at least, on some level, is helping. Lindir is still frightened, but slowly coming down, and Elrond asks in a calm voice, “What were you doing in the woods?”

Lindir startles at the words. It takes two tries of him opening his mouth to manage: “I was... helping collect certain spices... but I was separated from the others, and...” He pauses to swallow, then glances at his lap, his hands twisting together. It takes him a moment to recover enough to finish, “I admit, I... am not well suited for what the Greenwood has become.”

He’s far too temperate for it. There was a time, perhaps even in Lindir’s lifetime, when the Greenwood wasn’t also _Mirkwood_ , and the veil of trees might’ve offered peace and sanctity. But it’s evolved into something else over the years, something that Lindir is far too gentle for. Elrond dares to reach for Lindir’s hand and envelops it in a little squeeze, hoping to communicate his understanding. Lindir looks on the verge of tears, but Elrond’s hand seems to hold him back, and he sniffles before letting out a long breath, posture relaxing slightly. He seems desperately in need of being _held_ , but Elrond resists.

Then the last of the servants leave, the bath presumably drawn. Elrond says slowly, “You should bathe, Lindir. You will feel better when the last of the spider’s scent is gone from you. ...And I would tend to you, if you allow it, so that I could see if there has been any harm done that might require more attention.”

That torn look enters Lindir’s eyes again, and Elrond decides, “I will not, if you are uncomfortable, I would not wish to—”

But Lindir hurriedly says, “No, not, it is not that, just... just that you are a lord, and I... I...”

“May require healing,” Elrond supplies, “and I am a healer. If there is anything amiss, I will know, and I would not have your pain linger if you twisted your ankle or bruised beneath the skin with your fall. Please.”

Lindir still looks hesitant. Elrond waits patiently, though he knows even the great hot springs of Mirkwood don’t produce water that stays warm forever. Lindir frets and mumbles, “But you should not attend to me. I would not have you sit by me while I bathe—it would not be right. And you were in the woods as well; you need a bath as much as I must. Perhaps... perhaps if we were to...” He doesn’t finish the thought, but Elrond thinks he has an idea.

And he’d like to share a bath with Lindir. He thinks he’d quite enjoy it. But it seems to cross a line that Lindir set, except Lindir begs, “Please.”

* * *

Lindir seems to be able to walk fine, at least to the washroom, but Elrond still watches to make sure he doesn’t put too much weight on it before it’s been looked at. They tie their hair atop their heads and strip themselves in silence, Lindir occasionally stealing little glances over his shoulder that Elrond catches in the corner of his eye. He wonders if it feels strange to Lindir, undressing himself instead of his lord when a bath is drawn. But then, there aren’t many with titles in Mirkwood, and Elrond doubts Lindir’s ever attended Thranduil personally. When their clothes are neatly folded on the side table, Elrond offers Lindir a hand to help him into the bath. A wispy layer of steam wafts off the surface, and Lindir’s breath hitches when his good foot slips inside. Elrond discreetly braces an arm around his middle, but Lindir hikes himself in well enough. Elrond has to force himself not to take a moment just to stare, instead climbing into the other side.

The tub is a fair size, but it’s hardly meant for two, and their legs overlap in the middle, Lindir blushing and trying to pull his up, while Elrond scoots closer anyway. He leaves the bar of soap in its holder at the side, for now just examining with his eyes and fingers. He lets his hands land on Lindir’s shoulders, feeling the supple skin and soft muscles below. Lindir’s breath is coming very fast, and Elrond says, “Please tell me if you grow uncomfortable.”

Lindir shakes his head and mumbles, “It is fine, my lord.”

Elrond corrects, “Just Elrond will do.”

And Lindir trembles and bows his head: the only confirmation. He doesn’t repeat the name. But he’s still as Elrond slowly tilts his chin and examines his neck—he has a thin cut that likely came from the removal of webbing, but it appears shallow and isn’t bleeding. A number of light bruises twist their way down Lindir’s front, possibly from where he fell. Elrond traces each with his fingers, carefully noting Lindir’s reactions, and eventually has to stray below the water. It’s almost hot enough to scald, but Lindir doesn’t seem to mind, and Elrond welcomes the heat. He imagines they might be a while and will need it to last. It’s difficult to skim his hands past Lindir’s cock, checking Lindir’s hips and, but he manages. Lindir lowers his legs obediently as Elrond spreads and palms his thighs, pleased when they prove unblemished. Elrond spends the longest on the foot that Lindir fell on, leaning back and examining both ankle and sole, but he can find no damage beyond a delicate bruise along the heel. When he’s finished, he can’t resist pressing a light peck over the darkened skin, and Lindir mewls and squirms from across the tub.

Elrond releases his foot and bids, “Please turn—I would examine your back.” 

Lindir nods and does so, twisting carefully and pushing back to make room for his legs—Elrond catches Lindir around the waist and pulls him closer, hiking him up into Elrond’s lap, thighs spread around his knees. It lifts Lindir higher out of the water and makes it easier to see more of him. He looks fine, but Elrond smoothes over his skin all the same, asking, “Do you hurt anywhere?”

Lindir minutely shakes his head, a few stray strands falling loose of the twisted braid pinned up behind him. “No, my l—... _Elrond_.” He takes a shuddering breath then, continuing, “You rescued me in time.”

“The guards would have rescued you,” Elrond says with more confidence than he feels. It troubles him to think that had he not come on this visit, Lindir might have been lost in the woods of his own home. The mere notion distresses Elrond more than he’d care to admit, makes his hands tighten around Lindir’s hips, his examination pausing—he can go no lower anyway. Lindir’s taut rear is squished against his legs, his own cock rising below. He hadn’t meant to grow hard, certainly not with Lindir in his lap, but Lindir is so very lovely, so warm and soft against him, so alluring in both mind and body. Elrond wrenches his gaze back up, but it’s too late—his mind has already spiraled down that path. He has a gorgeous soulmate in his arms, and his spirit sings for it. He withdraws his hands and forcibly admits, “I think you are well, unhurt below the surface. The bruises I will tend to when we leave.”

Lindir mumbles, “Thank you,” and squirms, perhaps readying to leave Elrond’s lap, but the movement drags Elrond’s cock between Lindir’s plush cheeks, and the rush of it makes him moan. He shoots his hand over his mouth, but it’s too late.

Lindir peeks over his shoulder, rosy-cheeked and nervous. Then he turns himself, awkwardly rising on his knees and coming about, so that he can sit the other way in Elrond’s lap, chest-to-chest, and it allows Elrond’s cock to spring free, rising through the water. Lindir’s shaft slides along it, the contact causing both of them to groan. Hiked up on Elrond’s legs, Lindir’s tip almost peaks through the water, his hips submerged and skewed beneath the surface, but the rest of him bared for display and wet from Elrond’s touch. His small nipples have pebbled in the air, or maybe from arousal—he looks and feels hard. One of his hands he presses tentatively against Elrond’s chest, the other disappearing behind him.

“Please,” he murmurs, while his body starts to move, rolling down to lightly stir the water. “ _Elrond_... I want you so much...”

A part of Elrond thinks to stop this—Lindir might have died today, and that could easily push someone into something they didn’t truly want. But Lindir is already moving in, and Elrond is powerless to stop the kiss that follows. He wants Lindir with everything he is. Lindir pulls back to whisper, “Sorry, so sorry...” but kisses Elrond again, then again, and Elrond lifts an arm around Lindir’s waist while Lindir grinds their wet bodies together. 

So many sensations duel at once—the delicious slide of Lindir’s taut stomach against his own, the rub of Lindir’s hard nipples against his chest, the pulsing of Lindir’s cock against his shaft and the pressure of both cocks trapped between their bodies. Everything is a mind-numbing pleasure, topped with the press of Lindir’s mouth. Their tongues dance around one another, faces shifting to accommodate each different kiss, Elrond’s hands running up Lindir’s sides to explore, and he realizes belatedly what Lindir must be doing, what the tremors in the water are. Lindir gasps into his mouth and lifts higher, both hands coming around to steady on Elrond’s shoulders. Elrond dips below the water, holding Lindir up, and Lindir moans, “Please, Elrond, I’m ready...” Elrond’s fingers twist along Lindir’s thighs, down below his stones and into the crease of his ass, to find his hole fingered open. Elrond knows they should _talk_ before this, but his soul already rages for completion—he knows this is _right_ , and he longs to entwine them all the deeper. He guides his cock to Lindir’s entrance while Lindir pleads, “Yes, _ohhh_ , I need you, Elrond...” He’s never enjoyed the sound of his name more. It feels meant for Lindir’s tongue. 

Elrond pulls at Lindir’s hips, guiding him down, and Lindir obliges, sinking onto the head of Elrond’s cock with a ragged moan. Elrond clenches his teeth and hisses at the sudden tightness that envelops him, even hotter than the water, Lindir’s slick walls clutching restlessly at him. Lindir clings to Elrond’s shoulders, fingers digging in, and makes such pretty noises. He’s a songbird even in the water, in another’s lap. He clenches around Elrond’s cock and begs, “ _More_ , please...”

Elrond can’t deny Lindir anything. He draws Lindir down, gradually but unfailingly, embracing each new stretch of Lindir’s passage with a rush of pleasure. Lindir is impossibly perfect. He hides his face in the side of Elrond’s, then withdraws for a desperate kiss that Elrond happily returns. By the time Lindir’s fully seated, Elrond is rock-hard and eager for release. Lindir’s body is blissful.

Lindir moves for him, grinding on in little circles, then lifting incrementally up, forcing Elrond’s cock to slide out, just until the head—the Lindir drops again, splashing the water against the sides and wracking a moan from Elrond’s throat. He lets Lindir set the pace from there, lets Lindir rise and fall and bounce back up again, taking Elrond in long, full strokes, while his own cock slides between. Elrond drops one hand to wrap tightly around it, the other spreading across Lindir’s back. Lindir keens at the squeezing of his cock, bucking forward and humping Elrond all the harder. Elrond keeps hold of Lindir’s tongue and delights in every movement. Lindir rides him with such _ardor_.

Lindir quakes the water enough that Elrond is sure they’re making a mess of the floor, but he can’t bring himself to care—all he can do is ride through one wave of exquisite pleasure after the next, luxuriating in the subtle curves of Lindir’s body, the tight heat of his channel, and the fire of his kiss. Elrond sweats from the heat of it. His heart pounds in his chest. He strokes Lindir and drowns in the overwhelming paradise of their connection, until his orgasm hits him like a tidal wave. It sweeps him away in a dizzying flood of white, his vision swaying and his fingers tightening around Lindir’s cock and back. He screams into Lindir’s mouth, bursting inside his young lover, and Lindir finishes right alongside him, bucking pack and spilling over Elrond’s hand.

Elrond pumps him through it, and Lindir rides him through it, their rhythm slowing but the passion no less for it. Elrond savours the moment with everything he can, until there’s simply nothing left. Then he slumps against the rim of the tub, and Lindir collapses into him, flattening fully against his overheated frame. For a long moment, the two of them simply lay there, Elrond wondrously sated and Lindir trembling anew. 

Lindir is the first to lift up, letting Elrond slide out of him—it must’ve been sore, now that they’ve come down, though Elrond thinks he could happily fill Lindir again. Lindir just sits, hunched, in his lap, eyes lowered but unseeing, breathing hard.

Elrond waits some time through this. The bathwater is still warm enough, but they may as well leave before they wrinkle, and attempt a proper cleaning later in fresh water. Yet Lindir sits quietly, the trouble slowly seeping back into his face.

It breaks Elrond’s heart to see that. He doesn’t understand what’s so wrong, but he waits for Lindir to tell him, filling the time between by lifting one hand from the water to gently tuck each fallen hair back into Lindir’s braided bun. 

Finally, as Elrond’s hand slips away, Lindir whispers, “I am so afraid.”

Elrond’s frozen, silent, but the rest doesn’t come. Lindir merely looks down through his lashes, body limp as though in defeat. Elrond can feel the fear again, though nothing threatens them. Elrond curls one hand beneath Lindir’s chin and tilts it up. Lindir still won’t meet his eyes.

So Elrond presses, “Why?”

Lindir looks like he might break into tears. His eyes are glistening, but he only sucks in air and murmurs, “My heart belongs to a great lord who will soon leave, and I will have neither his heart nor bed.” His eyes close, scrunched together, and Elrond gently strokes his cheek until they flutter open again. Elrond peers into them, wanting to be certain he understands, but he’s sure Lindir speaks of him. 

“You will have my heart,” he promises. “Should I sail West or whither from this world, you will still have it.” Lindir’s gaze flickers to Elrond’s, and Elrond holds it fast, though he can still feel the palpable misery below Lindir’s skin. He soothes: “And you will always be welcome in my bed, or anywhere else that you would have me. I must return to Imladris. I have duties there, and I am entrusted with its safety, but we have many long years before us, and the Woodland Realm is not so far...”

“You would be with me?” Lindir murmurs. “When you visit? When there are so many greater elves that would wish for you, and my king will offer better elves for your bed?”

Now Elrond uses both hands to cup Lindir’s face. He pulls Lindir closer, lifting his legs to slide Lindir as flush against him as possible—their stomachs brush, spent cocks cradled between them, the water lapping calmly at their sides. Lindir’s hands hover against Elrond’s chest, applying no weight. Elrond searches his eyes, attempting to peer deeper, to understand—he thinks, through the sensuous link of their bond, he can see into Lindir’s soul. He asks, slowly and clearly, “Do you feel your soul tied to mind, Lindir? For I know that mine is tied to you.”

Lindir nods in his hands. It’s a tremendous burden off his shoulders, and he lets out a relieved breath, taking a quick moment just to savour that. It seems then that no other troubles are of any consequence. He fondly thumbs Lindir’s jaw, sighing, “Then you know that I would be with you all I could, and that there is _no one_ greater.” Once he sees that first flicker in Lindir’s eye, doubt mingled with hope, he ploughs on, “You are the one _meant_ for me, Lindir. I felt it when I first saw you, I have been drawn to you ever since, and I confess I grow more pleased with every moment we share. You are lovely. You are sweet and courteous, inspiring and beautiful, of marvelous talent. You are too young for me by many years—you deserve someone young, vital, but the Valar have blessed me with you, and I will not forsake that gift. If you would have me, I would have no other. And I would have you all the time that I could.”

“But I am Silvan,” Lindir bursts, shaking his head even as his hands fly to hold Elrond’s against him. “I am only a servant. And I am not even a desired one, at that. I... forgive me, I would never have been so forward as to come to your chambers that first night, if my king had not made the suggestion to me. I would not have presumed... you are so handsome... and you are strong, and wise, and I... I cannot even manage myself in the woods...”

“You are a gentle spirit. Perhaps that is why I feel so at peace with you.”

Lindir smiles. It’s heartbreaking, the way it spreads so wide across his face, his eyes crinkling, looking truly ready to spill—Elrond leans forward to kiss the moisture away from one corner, then the other. Lindir whispers, “You cannot mean that...”

“I do.” He pulls Lindir’s face towards him and kisses Lindir’s smile, murmuring, “I would have you in my home instead, safe within my walls...”

“I wish to go,” Lindir mumbles, pausing to give Elrond another kiss, then, “I badly wish to be there—I have always wondered, whenever I heard tales, but to know its lord is you, and to know that you would have me...”

“I will have you,” Elrond insists, dropping his arms to hold around Lindir’s waist. He cradles Lindir against him as tightly as he dares, and Lindir finally lets the tears fall, snuggling into Elrond and scattering him in kisses. Lindir’s skin seems to glow, his face a great star, the bond blazing between them. They taste one another’s mouths and come together, and soon make love for a second time, not finished until the water has lost all its heat and their bodies hold it all.

* * *

Elrond has no energy to attend tonight’s feast, so he has their meal brought to them. The guard outside his door hurries to oblige, and they’re brought bread and fruit and wine, all of which they eat from the bed, because Elrond would like Lindir to rest after the ordeal in the forest and he enjoys the luxury himself. It won’t be like this when he returns to Imladris; he’ll always have some duty or another to perform, and Lindir will have to find something to attend to. Lindir is easy to picture in the serene background of Elrond’s valley. He speaks of Imladris with such awe and thanks Elrond again and again for leave to go. Elrond wants nothing more. He alternates between bringing berries to his mouth and brining his mouth to Lindir’s lips; he can’t seem to keep away, not now, when their discovering is so fresh, and they have time to just enjoy one another. 

They talk for some time, far past when they’ve finished their food, cuddled up against the headboard with the blankets over their laps, speaking of everything either can think of. The style of it suits them both. They share interests in almost all the same subjects. Elrond could quite happily spend every last minute of his trip right here, doing this.

Of course, he’s never so lucky. Before it’s time to blow out the candles, someone raps against the door, and a loud voice calls, “Elrond? Are you decent?”

Lindir flushes, but Elrond merely sighs and excuses himself from the conversation, slipping out of bed and glad that they both dressed again after their bath. He answers the door himself, meaning to give Thranduil an excuse and send him away, but naturally, Thranduil slips right inside.

He spots Lindir immediately, halting in place. Elrond closes the door again to afford them some privacy. Thranduil turns back to him to drawl, “Is this why you so rudely missed my feast? I had heard you went into the forest today, and I had come to see if you were harmed, but it seems even the great Elrond Peredhel can be distracted with other temptations.”

Elrond doesn’t bother explaining that it’s not _that_ , because in a way, it is. He calmly answers, “I apologize. I had much to discuss with Lindir, which, I suppose, I should now relay to you.”

Thranduil lifts a brow, the corner of his thin lips rising in a smirk, and Elrond realizes belatedly what he’s inferred. With a weary sigh, Elrond shakes his head and explains, “He is my soulmate, Thranduil. I knew from our first night together. It did not seem something that needed to be shared, but now it would only be right to inform you that I intend to take him with me when I return to Imladris.”

He fully expects Thranduil to make some joke about stealing his citizens, but instead, Thranduil just _stares_ at Elrond, the amusement gone from his eyes. He turns to scrutinize Lindir just as hard, then frowns at Elrond again and muses wryly, “A servant. Your... soulmate.”

“I did not choose him,” Elrond reminds Thranduil, “though if I had known to seek his company, I may well still have.” Thranduil snorts.

There’s nothing more to say on it. Elrond waits as Thranduil mulls it over, then paces swiftly across the floor, occasionally glancing at either other occupant of the room. Lindir is painfully quiet, still half hidden in Elrond’s bed, and Elrond stands at attention. He didn’t expect Thranduil to take the news lightly.

But Thranduil has no say in the affairs of Imladris, much less Elrond himself, and eventually, Thranduil seems to deduce that. He ceases his pacing and tells Elrond sharply, “Do not tell Legolas of this.”

Elrond lifts a brow and replies, “I hope you would not hold him from his fate if it were something similar.”

“Perhaps not, but I would council him extensively against it, and I would not have him quoting your precedent.” 

Elrond begrudgingly nods his head, simply because he knows he will have great difficulty with Thranduil if he doesn’t. He’s clear to say, though, “Your realm is your affair, but in mine, I will take no measure to hide who I am bound to.”

Thranduil rolls his eyes like he expected nothing less.

He sends Lindir another frown, and Elrond has the sudden worry that Thranduil will deny him leave, but to Thranduil’s credit, he merely nods his head. To Elrond, he closes, “I trust you will attend tomorrow’s feast. He may sit with you, though if any ask, I will say it is in honour of his final night in my realm.” 

Elrond concedes with a measured bow of his head, and Thranduil excuses himself. His white-blond hair is through the door a heartbeat later, and Lindir lets out an audible breath.

Elrond crosses the room to kiss him again and promise, “All will be well, my Lindir.”

* * *

They spend the night together, and in the morning, Elrond wakes to find Lindir curled up against him, sharing the same pillow. The swell of warmth it gives him is nearly dizzying. It seems strange, now that he has this in his life, to remember a time when he didn’t know such joy. He was only part of a whole then, and now he’s complete. He watches Lindir wake and kisses him to consciousness, and they spend the morning intertwined.

They spend the afternoon together, walking through the halls and speaking of other things: their pasts, their lives, their dreams. They spend the evening on a balcony, alternating between songs and stories.

They attend the feast together, sitting side by side, though Lindir twitches nervously when his glass is filled for him, and he continually tops off Elrond’s before the attendant can. He finds Elrond’s hand under the table, and Elrond squeezes his palm, and that seems to reassure him. Thranduil warms up to the idea once he’s had enough wine. Elrond and Lindir keep clear heads, so they can spend the night getting to know one another all the more.

But on the last morning, nothing’s changed. Elrond feels as drawn to Lindir as he did at the first feast, and he can no longer imagine his life without that other piece of him. He helps Lindir onto the back of his horse, and they ride to Imladris together, Lindir holding him tight and singing below the wind, “ _I love you._ ”


End file.
